


First. Cut.

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Acting, First Impressions, Improvisation, M/M, Pre-pilot, locked in a cell, with the hot new co-star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-15 05:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11799762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: According to Jensen's agent, the part was in the bag. There was just this one, unconventional thing that the show runners wanted him to do.So, he let himself be dressed for the part as if it was a screen Test and didn’t even protest when he saw the blindfold.Enter his new co-star and improv ensues.Wouldn't you have loved to be there when the boys met? Here's one way it certainly didn't happen.





	First. Cut.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyxocity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Yours by Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/380479) by [nyxocity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity). 



> Here's my first foray into J2. It's all about the wincest for me.  
> So, no, of course, this is not how screenings and cast introductions go, but, indulge my fantasy.
> 
> If you haven’t read Nyxocity's piece and you're up for a steamy ride, go and do. That’s a big part of the inspiration for this fic. This is something rather different, although you could read it as a companion, pre-quel piece. Maybe

Jensen stumbled forward, spun on his heels and ripped the blindfold over his head. The heavy steel door clanged shut, leaving him alone in some military cell with nothing but a cot and a bucket to piss in. Usually, he took a few minutes to close his eyes,  and let the character get into him. There was nothing usual about this.

They hadn’t even signed the contract yet, but his agent assured him that it was in the bag. The show runners just wanted to try something unconventional to be 110% sure. The only instruction he had gotten before being shoved into this hole was to treat this scene as an alternative to the pilot and not to break, no matter what.

He’d barely had time to scrub a palm over the week’s worth of Dean-Winchester stubble when the door creaked open so they could toss in another guy.

 Jensen's no small man, but this guy was huge. Rugby shoulders. Runway legs.

The new prisoner staggered backward, pulled off the blindfold and shook a mop of chestnut hair out of his angular face. “What the--”

“Exactly.”

The behemoth wheeled around, body tense as if ready to spring. Hazel eyes widened, flitted over Jensen’s face and down his body. “Dean?”

He was a similar type to Tommy Welling. Cuter and hotter, though. And already gave off less of an asshole vibe. Shouldn’t be too painful to work with.

“Heya, Sammy,” Jensen said, smirking for good measure. Dean Winchester was a smirker.

“What the hell is this?”

“Good to see you, too, kid.”

‘Sam’ pursed his lips.

“Your guess is better than mine, college boy.”

“Really?” He huffed. “You want to do this now?”

“You got a better idea, hot shot?” Jensen was phoning it in, not quite in the headspace he’d manufactured, but spewing words that radiated canned resentment, with a touch of roughneck.

Sam rolled his eyes. “How about we figure out how to get the hell out of here?”

“So you can run off back to school?” Jensen tossed the blindfold to the floor. No need to keep holding it.

Still not quite there. More - something. If he had just had a moment to center himself before they’d thrown this giant in with him. What was he, a solid 6’6”?

“Dean. Seriously. Someone has us locked in some kind of... God only knows what this is, and you want to give me grief about school?”

“Yeah, Sam, you know what? I do.”

“Fine. Then, I'll figure it out on my own.” Sam turned his back, and that’s what Jensen needed.

That simple act was all it took to knock him into Dean Winchester’s psyche. Everyone turns their back on him.

Emotionally repressed, multi-faceted, motherless military boy, raised by a psychotic father in a world of pure insanity. Hard case with a heart of gold and a gooey marshmallow center.

Dream role.

Dean slammed his entitled, selfish asshole of a brother’s back up against the wall. Their eyes met and remained entangled. Neither of them had expected it and both were breathing too fast. Dean had a solid fistful of Sam’s t-shirt, but he was forced to look up into his little brother's eyes.  
At his mouth.  
Parted. Pink. Pretty

Dead pause. Any director worth their salt would call cut.

Jensen released his co-star and backed up all the way across the cell. He put as much distance between them as the cinder block walls would allow.

How long were they supposed to do this?

“Are you ever going to forgive me?" ‘Sam’ asked. 

What was his real name? To ask would be to break. There was nothing to do but roll with it.

“You're right. We got to get out of here before I choke on your bullshit.” That felt pretty Dean, except for the swearing. Network TV, there would be no swearing, but that hadn’t been one of the stipulations for this whacked out Mad Max improv thing.

Jensen turned his back, leaned a forearm on the chilly wall and closed his eyes. The voice was lower. That was one thing he could be consistent about, regardless of what was going through his head. He wasn’t going to do all his nutty vocal warm-ups and what not in front of this perfect stranger, but he could pull himself the fuck together.

It’s not like he’d never been in stressful situations before. Not like he’d never worked with attractive actors. He’d done sex scenes and not felt this close to springing a boner. Not sex scenes with guys, of course. Nobody knew that about him. Nobody needed to know. Career-poison, unless you’re Ellen or Elton.

So far as anybody knew Jensen Ackles was straight as an arrow, with a female fiancé to prove it. Only took straight scripts. Had explicitly turned down a queer role to avoid arousing suspicion. Then again, look at Franco. Franco didn’t ever seem ever to stop playing gay, and nobody questioned him. Or maybe they did, and the guy didn’t give a fuck.

Jensen gave a fuck. In fact, he gave many fucks, just behind closed doors, with discreet partners.

His veins ran icy when a huge, hot hand landed on his neck. Warm breath fanned over his ear and set fire to his gut. So much for avoiding an erection. He was already halfway there. Thank God for the jeans and leather jacket look. All he had to do was act calm, which was convenient because he was a fucking actor.

“I’m sorry.”

Jensen looked up into variable eyes again, but it wasn’t the colors that drew him in. There was depth, sincerity, tenderness. Something he wanted to touch.

“Are there cameras?” He mouthed, as if on mute.

“There have to be,” ‘Sam’ answered just as soundlessly. “But I don’t care.” That hand slid to Jensen’s lower back. “Dean. I'm sorry.”

Dean. Right.

Concentration wasn't happening. This guy was hot, in the literal sense of the word, heat rolling off of him in waves, like the sun baking asphalt. If Jensen could only adjust his pants.  

“I’m sorry for everything,” his fake brother said. “And I know it's all my fault. Never meant for it to turn out like this. Never wanted to be away from you. I... I just, God, I need you. Right now, you have no idea.”

That kid leaned close, Jensen’s cock strained back toward him.

“I thought I was over it,” he went on delivering his monolog for a rapt audience of one. “I mean, I did what you said. Finally got my head out of my ass and talked to someone who wasn't you.... You were right. When I stopped acting like a freak, people stop treating me like one.” He smiled, revealing dimples. This was not going to be as simple as Jensen had assumed. “You ought to see this girl I'm with now. She's a goddess, Dean. You would love her ... No. I know you don't do that. But maybe you'd tell her you loved her and she would spread for you."

Had this guy done Jensen’s character work, too? Of course, he had. Jensen certainly knew Dean's Sammy like the back of his hand. His heart beat for Sam.

But that hand was still on his back, breath in his ear.

Under normal circumstance, Jensen would to call out for his line.  
Or cut  
Or something  
Anything

But there was no line. So, he turned, clapped Sam on his fitness-trainer firm shoulder and said, “Water under the bridge, Sammy. We figure out how to get the hell out of here, gank the SOB who thought he could lock up John Winchester’s boys. Then I'll go back to being pissed at you. Maybe you can introduce me to your goddess.”

Sam nodded, holstered his dimples, and sat down on the cot with his head in his hands. 

Good. Down boy. Both of you.

But not good when he was still sitting like that what felt like an hour later.

“Hey. You keep it together over there,” Jensen said with Dean's voice.

This was Dean's body, too. He’d done a fuckload of working out since he started reading for this part. Sure, it was more for show than strength, but still, he was in the best shape of his life. 

He bounced on his toes and rolled his neck. “Hey. Sammy. Look alive. I know all that fucking studying has made you soft, but it's not like I can carry your Sasquatch ass out of here. So if you're going to have a meltdown, save it for once we're sprung.”

Sam looked up, not all good. Maybe this kid was claustrophobic.

“Shit.” Dean sat beside him. "Hey. You alright?" He lowered his voice, asking the actor. "You don't have a thing about spaces, do you?" Then out loud for the hidden cameras.  
"I mean, you never used to have that."

Sam shook his head.

“Good.” Dean slapped his thigh. Jensen retracted his hand. “We're going to get out of here. I'm going to get us out of here."

Sam looked into his eyes. He was some gorgeous kid. And Jensen needed for this Tropic Thunder nightmare to end.

He stood up and shouted at the door, "What the fuck? What the fuck is this? What do you want from us? Hey!"

He trudged over and kicked it, once. Steel-toed Timberlands. What the hell. He kicked it a few more times enjoying the sound and the fact that at least he was doing something other than waiting.

“Dean.” Sam was still sitting on his ass.

“What?” Dean kicked the door.

“That's not going to help.”

“How do you know?” Again.

“How long have we been in here?”

Dean looked at his watch. “Three hours.”

“Do you have a phone?”

“You honestly think they would have let me bring my phone in here, Einstein?” He patted his jacket pocket, and there it was, right where he’d left it. “Fine. Who am I supposed to call? Don't say it…”

“Just, good to know.”

Was this Sam’s intelligence or Not-Sam’s? 

“No bars. No fucking bars.” Dean turned and hurled his phone against the wall.

“And that helped how?”

“Better idea?” Dean asked. “No? I got one. How about you shut up?” Immature, but on point.

“Did I create this situation?”

“Actually, you did.” Dean stuck a finger in his bratty kid brother’s face. “If you wouldn't have been in California, I wouldn't have been in California. Whatever sick fuck has got us holed up in here, wouldn't.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Know what? Bite me, Sam.” Jensen paced. Dean would never give up and would find a way out if it killed him. He stopped and pointed up. “Can you reach that vent?”

Sam looked. “No.”

“Are you going to just sit there or are you going to get up and try?”

“Dean, that's a solid 10 feet up. I can, maybe, touch it.”

“Get up.” Dean kicked his leg. “Get up, you lazy, pampered, test-taking bitch.” He dragged the cot over with a loud screech across the concrete floor. “Now?”

Sam sucked his teeth, but he climbed up. He could reach, but it was welded shut.

“Fuck.” Dean kicked over the cot, sincerely wishing he had more shit to throw around.

Was this the test? How do Dean and Sam Winchester work together to solve this problem? Fuck. He was starting to sweat. All these fucking layers. Sam watched him pull off the jacket and the outer shirt and toss them aside.

“What?” Dean growled. “It's hot.”

Once again, Sam's eyes traveled over the entire length of his body, hovered for a moment at his crotch - there was no way Jensen imagined that - and back to his face. The guy... Sam, but Not-Sam, because Sam was his character’s little brother - whoever this guy was, licked his lips and stalked towards him.

Jensen took two steps back before he was pressed up against the wall.

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“I heard you.” Jensen swallowed and tried to extricate himself from the solid body that was melded to his.

“But I’m not.”

“Sam, what are you ---”

Then there were lips. Crushed against his mouth, and a tongue invading, a leg sliding between his thighs.

He gazed up at the guy, unable to speak. Unable to think. Only remaining upright in the spinning room because Not-Sam had him up against the wall with the bulk of his body. And there was a lot of his body.

The guy leaned to his ear and whispered, “Cherry.”

“What?”

His chest rumbled as he chuckled. “My name. It’s Jared.”

“Oh.” Jensen nodded. “What the fuck are you doing, Jared?”

“Interpreting the script,” he murmured and then raised his voice. “I know you never came to see me because of this. And I know it'll never be like that again. But I never stopped thinking about you. I just wanted you to know that. No one else has ever come close.”

Fuck.

Jensen honestly hadn't seen that before, but it made sense. It’s all there. Two kids isolated from the rest of world, all but abandoned, even by their father who taught them to mistrust everyone else. Transient and unable to form meaningful, lasting connections with others. One of them leaves suddenly, and there’s no contact between them for years?

They were all each other had. It had to be more than resentment that kept them apart. It was as solid a backstory as any, and the first rule of improv - the answer's always yes. 

Dean stroked his baby brother’s cheek. Sam leaned close, tried to take another kiss. Dean turned aside. “It’s like you said, Sam. Never again.”

Sam’s nostrils flared, his mouth twitched. Dean patted his cheek and pushed him back until Sam-Jared stood in the middle of the floor, staring at his feet. All that hair obscuring his beautiful face. 

When the idea of how to get out first occurred to Jensen, Dean shoved it back down. He looked over at his brother, longing to comfort him, lacking the wherewithal to comfort even himself. This was their life, the junction of the cross they bore.

It was another two minutes before Jensen crossed the floor, turned the knob and opened the door.


End file.
